


Raíces

by ccurabul820



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Cougar needs a happy ending and by god I'm gonna give it to him, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Homecoming, M/M, Post-Canon, and mentions of happy Cougar/Jensen, brief mentions of alcohol, but this is mostly about family, lots of Catholic Guilt, oh and Catholic Guilt, this is what happens when I listen to too much sad Latin music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 07:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13519323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ccurabul820/pseuds/ccurabul820
Summary: In hindsight, maybe Cougar should have waited until he was sober before deciding to go back to his roots after a decade of being gone.





	Raíces

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe it took me this long to post something here, but here I am! The name's Cat, and I'm just your usual Latina and gay college student who would much rather write stories than work on class essays. 
> 
> Super special thanks to my amazing best friend (and equally awesome beta reader!) dridri93, who, among other things, introduced me to the world of actually publishing your work, loves the Losers more than life itself, and probably (definitely) reads too much fic in their spare time (you told me to drag you, so I'm going for it, I'm sorry). This one goes out to you, dude; there's no one else that I'd rather watch telenovelas and grab burgers with <3 
> 
> Anyway, this is my first posted fanfic, so feel free to give kudos and leave all the comments you want! I may make this a series of one-shots about Cougar and family (who knows tbh). 
> 
> I'm also working on a couple of original novels that I'll end up posting sooner or later, so stay tuned! I'm excited to be here, and I can't wait to keep posting and sharing my work with all of you (as well as reading all of yours)!!

 

In Cougar’s defense, he had been drinking.

            It had all started when Jensen brought home two giant bottles of whiskey ("No reason, Cougs; just because!"). At the time, Cougar had figured that this was merely a prelude for something else, but the night ended with him sprawled across the bed, downing shots of liquor and listening to his lover's drunken, rambling phone call to his sister. Jensen's gesticulations and words slurred into a syrupy mess in his mind; Cougar did not need to see his face to recognize the excitement in his voice and the joy that was surely dancing in his eyes, and, when he finally crawled into bed, there was a gleeful smile on his face that Cougar did not hesitate to reciprocate as they huddled together under the covers.

            He stayed up well into the night, staring at the ceiling and letting his mind buzz. He thought of the team, scattered to the winds and making their own lives (though Pooch still made it a priority to keep everyone up to date on news regarding his kid); he thought of Jensen, who was currently a snoring, drooling mess curled up against his side. He thought of family--

            Family.

            Cougar sat up in bed; his vision swirled and his head ached (okay, maybe he shouldn't have taken that last shot), but that did nothing to stop the whispers that had begun to poke holes in his whiskey-soaked thoughts.

            He'd known what that had been like once, too, known days where he didn't wake up screaming and nights where he recited prayers that had yet to be answered. He'd had a life before all of this, but it had long since slipped underneath memories of blood bubbling over someone's lips, countless pairs of eyes dimming and dying at his command, fire twisting metal and searing flesh--

            He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if that was all it would take to chase those nightmares away. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he was safe, but that did little to curb the tightness that had settled in his stomach.

            It's not like he didn't have the opportunity to see what (who) he'd left; on the contrary, he'd had plenty, but he'd backed out every time. A coward's move, he knew, but, for the past several months, it had suited him just fine.

            And yet.

_And yet…_

            Cougar leaned back, letting his head thump against the bedframe. He could feel regret, his oldest friend, worrying at the edges of his mind and tearing through the flimsy alcohol that was currently keeping him together. He let it laugh, let its whispers run deep until they stirred the marrow in his bones and sparked the kindling that, up until now, had flickered as a mere fantasy in the depths of his secret heart.  

            It had been one year since Bolivia, since Max. Six months since him and Jensen became partners of a different kind. One month since others first began to tell him that he no longer needed to hide from the world.

            One month since Cougar found himself drunk, wide awake in the dead of night, and thinking _what do I have to lose?_

 

He'd left about a week and a half ago. Packing was easy, but saying goodbye to Jensen proved to be harder. Even now, the corners of his lips turned up into a tiny, stubborn smile as he remembered how his lover had clung to him as he'd tried (and failed) to sneak out through the kitchen window. In hindsight, Cougar supposed that attempting to leave without a single word would have been, as Jensen so eloquently put it, "a fucking dick move," but it's not like he would ever admit that out loud.

            Now, though, as he huddled alone amidst the jagged hills of the Chihuahua Desert, he found himself wishing that their final hug had lasted for far longer.

            Around him, the desert was silent, and he absolutely hated it. The sand crunching under his boots was his only comfort, glittering like gemstones under the moonlight. The last cactus flowers were beginning to wilt, and their heady scents mingled in the still air to create a perfume that the bats flitting over his head found absolutely intoxicating.

            Cougar, on the other hand, was more focused on the long shadows that the hills threw across the valley. Their gnarled shapes stretched out like claws; their darkness could be hiding any number of threats.

            He was in the middle of nowhere, but, even here, his mind still murmured of danger and death.

            Cougar shifted underneath the rocky overhang where he'd set up camp for the night. His back was safely pressed against the wall, but, in front of him, there was nothing but desert. He hadn't thought to build a fire, a decision that he was beginning to regret; at this rate, he was far more likely to freeze to death than be jumped by a fellow human. Some might have called this paranoia, but Cougar was well past giving a fuck about that. Better to be safe than to end up with a knife in your back.

            He glanced over at the motorcycle positioned just outside of his shelter. Well, perhaps motorcycle wasn't the best word to describe it, not really; it was more of a dirt bike than anything else. He'd bought it at a dingy stall at the side of the road near Nogales; before that, he'd been hitchhiking, walking alongside lonesome interstates and picking up rides whenever he could, but, by the time he reached the border, he figured it wouldn't kill him to invest in something a little more efficient. The vendor's eyebrows had shot up at the massive wad of _pesos_ Cougar placed onto the shaking wooden countertop, but the sight of the hunting knife strapped to his thigh must've silenced whatever questions were bubbling up in his mind. Instead, he'd smiled as if nothing was wrong (a stark contrast to the mournful image of La Virgen de Guadalupe taped to the beat-up cash register) and cheerily pointed Cougar on his way.

            Despite the fact that it looked to be at least ten years old and its body had been scuffed to Hell and back, the bike ran surprisingly well. That did little to stop the fact that he ended each day plastered with insect guts (you'd think the things would know better than to continuously position their swarms right in front of a moving vehicle) and absolutely blasted by sand.

            Cougar had learned quite a lot about himself over the past week, the most noteworthy thing being that he hated sand. At best, it was a nuisance that lingered at the bottom of his boots or built up around the wheels of his bike. At worst, it all but became ingrained into his very skin, rubbing and scratching until Cougar knew that he would wake up with irritated red spots. He could even feel it right now, pressing into the sacred spaces of his body where, for all intents and purposes, sand should never be. If Jensen were here, he would definitely have spent the past few hours calling him Anakin and cracking increasingly horrible _Star Wars_ -related jokes, and Cougar would have had no choice but to stab him.  

            Oh, how he missed his rifle, his baby, with her sleek barrel and metallic glint. He missed his bed, small and squeaky but infinitely warmer and more comfortable than the damned dirt he had slept on night after night.

            He missed Jensen. He really, _really_ missed Jensen.

            He sighed, watching through half-lidded eyes as his breath froze before him, curling and spiraling up to the stars. He could feel exhaustion pressing at the boundaries of his thoughts, and, for once, he had no desire to fight it. He shifted again in a vain effort to rid himself of the pebbles digging into his back, pulled his hat over his eyes, and allowed sleep to claim him.

 

The next morning, Cougar awoke to find a horned lizard resting on his chest.

            The critter was staring at him when he opened his eyes, its expression blank. True, he'd had far rougher awakenings (hell, he would be the first to admit that), but he would not at all be surprised if he had begun seeing things now.

            He blinked. The lizard blinked back.

            _Madre de Dios_ , he was definitely seeing things.  

            A heartbeat later, the awkward silence was shattered by a clap of thunder. He turned, and, sure enough, there was a bank of storm clouds gathering on the horizon, dark and seething. Cougar breathed out a curse; he did not come this far only to get struck down by one of the Big Man's heavenly snipers.

            Cougar scrambled to his feet, muttering an apology to the lizard as it jumped off of him and vanished into a crack in the rocks. He gave himself a moment to pull his hat down over his forehead to shield himself from the growing wind outside his shelter and hopped onto his bike. The rain was not far behind, but, if he was lucky, he would be able to outpace it.

            He might not have been a particularly hopeful man, but, for once, it would be nice for God to be on his side.

 

God was clearly enjoying watching Cougar suffer, for, not even an hour later, rain began pelting against his back in icy sheets.

            Frigid raindrops rolled off of his hat, soaked his jacket, chilled his body to the bone, but he pressed on with gritted teeth and aching lungs. For a while, things were doable.

            For a long, flickering moment, he let himself believe that he might actually make it like this.

            And then the bike gave out from underneath him.

            The world spun onto its side, the motor coughing as the bike's body keeled over and fell on top of him, trapping him against its dented form and grinding wheels. Cougar breathed in smoke, and he choked back a cry as he felt it scorch his mouth and burn against his nostrils; he scrabbled at the wet sand underneath him with desperate fingers, feeling it come apart under his grip as he clawed his way out from beneath the lifeless hunk of metal. He raked in a lungful of air and tipped his head back, letting the rain fall upon his face until he couldn't even feel himself breathe, and flopped back onto the sand.

            When Cougar was really small, he'd heard some silly story about how storms were just God's way of letting the mortal world know that He was watching over them; the lightning was just His camera's flash, the thunder its click. He'd always supposed that this was meant to serve as a way for children to feel comforted, to know that, no matter what happened, there was someone up above who would always care about them.

            Fast-forward to the present, and Cougar felt anything but cared about.

            Lightning streaked across the sky like missiles hungry for a target. Thunder roared and crashed like bombs, and, in their rumblings, Cougar heard the mocking of angels.

            He didn't need to ask himself what he'd been thinking when he made this decision to embark on a pilgrimage donning the guise of the faithful. There was no need to blame the alcohol, either. Drunk or no, a part of him always knew that he would have ended up doing this at some point or another.

            Cougar sat up. His beloved hat was soaked through and caked with sand, and he immediately found himself cleaning it off and straightening it out to the best of his ability. Overhead, the sky was beginning to lighten, the rain to falter, but the cold still clung to the air with a bitter resilience. He looked back at the bike; its engine had long since stalled, its wheels drowned in sand. The vendor wasn't going to be seeing it again anytime soon.

            He pushed himself back onto his feet, stretched his arms over his head, and took a deep breath. No matter what he decided to do, he couldn't stay here. It would be so easy for him to turn back, he thought, to admit that he'd failed and spend the rest of his days afraid to close his eyes.

            At the end of the day, though, Cougar knew enough about himself to understand that, even if this was nothing more than a test from above, he wouldn't-- couldn't --give up that easily.

            He at least owed himself that much.

            He took a step forward. Then another. Then a third, a fourth, and, before he knew it, he was walking forward. His steps were slow, and the sand sucked at his shoes, but he forced himself forward like a dog on a chain, pulled forward by an unseen hand. He matched his breaths to his paces, blinked the dark spots out of his vision. The angels at his back seethed, warning him that this was a mistake, that what he found would only damn him further, but he just gritted his teeth and shut out their calls. His turn at the confession booth would have to wait.  

            Cougar would be damned if he let this mission go unfinished.

 

            An eternity later, he found himself standing at the crest of a sand dune. The clouds were little more than wisps of the horizon now, curling like smoke and floating just above a sun that was just beginning to set. Below him, the dune receded and gave way to a wide, flat plain that stretched out until it met the peaks of the Sierra Madre in the distance.

            Under his feet, right where the dune met the plain, lay a town. Even from here, he could see how the white walls of the buildings gleamed in the light, a pocket of lighthouses guiding weary travelers to safety. It looked inviting enough, a welcome sanctuary after the burning and blistering of the desert.

            That didn't stop Cougar from feeling that he was standing at the mouth to Hell.

            He drew in a breath that was far too shaky for his liking and spared himself a moment to close and eyes and think. To focus on the wind whispering in his ears and the warmth soothing his scarred skin. To wonder if this was the closest thing to true peace that he'd feel.

            Cougar opened his eyes, readjusted his hat, and began the descent into his sentencing.

 

The sun was sitting on the horizon by the time Cougar took his first steps into the town. Inside the little houses, the first lights were beginning to flicker on as their inhabitants prepared for the night ahead. Every now and then, he'd glance into a window, and, sometimes, he'd see someone looking back at him: a curious child, their fingers pressed flat against the glass; a cat lounging against the windowpane, its ears twitching idly; a young mother nursing her infant, her lips moving as she sang a lullaby that Cougar could not hear.

            Every time, Cougar would be sure not to stare for too long. Nothing good would come from lingering like a ghost.

            It had been years upon years since he had walked these streets, but Cougar was not at all surprised to find that nothing had changed. Yes, there was the corner store with its painted, chipped signs and faded green roof. The road beneath his feet remained unpaved, clouds of dust dancing around his feet with every step.

            And, as he rounded a corner, there was the white church that he had been going to since before he could walk.

            Its stained glass windows were still whole, their colors all but glowing against the waning sunlight. Its wooden doors had already closed for the night, but, as Cougar approached, he swore that he could still hear the fading notes of the ancient organ, smell the cloying incense that would stick to his nose and mouth for the rest of the day, taste the stale bread and cheap wine that was said to be the body and blood of their savior.

            So enraptured was he, caught up in a faith that he was not sure wanted him anymore, that he failed to notice the hooded man sitting on the steps of the church until he reached up and touched his arm.

            Cougar would be ashamed of how he reacted for months afterward, but, in that moment, reaching for his knife had seemed like the most natural reaction in the world. The man stumbled back, releasing Cougar's arm and raising both arms over his own head as if to protect himself. He slipped on the steps and tumbled backwards into the dirt, the hood of his ragged coat slipping off of his head as he fell.

            Cougar's eyes widened with horror; he'd been expecting an assassin, a hitman, someone who would drag him back to a life that he was desperate to forget.

            He was not at all expecting to see an old man silently begging for mercy at his feet.

            Cougar sheathed his knife and bent down, extending an arm towards him; he saw the man flinch, then hesitate as he realized that the hand offered to him was open, safe, an apology. The man looked up at him with eyes as blue as the desert sky, then slowly reached out and allowed Cougar to pull him to his feet.

            " _Perdón_ ," Cougar murmured, his face heating up with shame, " _No sabía-- pensaba que--_ "

            The old man raised a hand and shook his head, cutting Cougar off, and offered him a gap-toothed smile of forgiveness. Cougar swallowed, guilt coursing through his veins; the man before him was little more than bleached bones held together by skin like strips of leather and hardened sand. His feet were bare, his pants torn in a hundred different places, his coat barely concealing the ribs that threatened to peer through his ancient, cracked chest. Before he could stop himself, Cougar was reaching into the pockets of his jacket, coming up with a handful of _pesos_ and a couple of granola bars. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. Besides, if things went well, it's not like he would need any of it where he was going.

            The man stared back at him, and it was only when Cougar gently pressed the coins and food into his hands that realization flickered across his features, darkening his eyes and softening his smile. " _Que Dios te bendiga_ ," he rasped, and Cougar wondered if he was imagining the tears beading at the corners of his eyes.

            He opened his mouth to reply, but whatever words he could have said died on his tongue. Guilt seized his throat and settled in his stomach; he had to get away from here, away from the man's quiet reverence before him, the judgmental dead at his back. Cougar heard himself mumble a hushed thanks, and, the next thing he knew, he was all but running from the church and slinking back into the shadows where he belonged.

            It was only well after he'd regained his breath that Cougar let himself look back at the church, silent and stern against the growing darkness that surrounded it. After a few moments, he swallowed and forced himself to turn away.

            It was far too late for him to ever become a saint.

 

All his life, Cougar had been searching for forgiveness.

            Forgiveness for abandoning his town all those years ago. For the nightmares that followed. For the long nights spent trying to wash the blood and ash from his fingernails. His sins taunted him while he slept, sneered with disgust whenever he held Jensen in his arms, slept in the dregs of beer bottles. They stretched on through the years and slunk across countless borders.

            They were still singing to him as he reached his destination, a squat, single-floored house on the outskirts of the town with no name. The sun was little more than a sliver on the horizon, painting the world in shades of violet and indigo and grey, but, even in the half-light, Cougar could still make out the forms of two figures sitting in the back yard, their twin rocking chairs turned so that their backs were to him as watched the sunset with linked hands.

            Cougar stopped walking. He was vaguely aware of lights flickering on inside the house and dogs barking as they caught his scent, but none of that mattered. The world narrowed until there was only him and the couple a few meters in front of him.

            He could run, his thoughts taunted, run like the sinner he was, run and remain nothing more than a forgettable image trapped in fading memories.

            Cougar snorted quietly. Like hell he was doing that.

            He took a step closer. Then a second. On the third, he felt a twig snap beneath his boots, and he saw the figures both stiffen as one.

            The second that followed was one of the longest of Cougar's life; time seemed to freeze, and there was nothing save for the chirping crickets and the sun's last flicker as it gave in to the night.

            His blood all but froze in his veins as he saw one of the figures rise and slowly turn toward him. He saw their-- no, _her_ \--eyes widen (they were as dark and deep as own, he did not need the light to know that) and her fingers fumble with the large golden cross strung on a chain around her neck (when he was a baby, he would always be grabbing and chewing on it, or so she'd tell him). He saw her lips move, as if she were murmuring a prayer that was far too low for him to even begin to understand.

            A sudden pang shot through Cougar's heart-- did she recognize him? It had been years since he'd last seen her; no, decades. She might not even want to remember him. She might hate him.

            Maybe that's what he deserved.

            He was answered by a cry. His name. No, not Cougar, not the bringer of blood and half-torn carcasses, but one that spoke of scraped knees and an oversized hat and the knowledge that came with being a firstborn child.

            His name. Carlos.

            A heartbeat later, his mother was stumbling into his arms. She hadn't even bothered to grab the wooden cane propped up against her chair, Cougar noticed; her long fingers trembled as she reached up to cup his face, and Cougar felt his heart twist with sorrow.

            Time had taken its toll on Maria Alvarez. Her hair, which had once been as black as a crow's feather, had long since dulled to the color of cold ash. Wrinkles sloped around the outlines of her mouth, and hollows had taken up residence under her large eyes and beneath her beautiful cheekbones.

            But it was his mother all the same, and she was holding onto her little boy (no, man, Cougar had not been a boy for a long time now) like he had just returned from the dead.

            Then again, Cougar supposed that had been more or less what had happened.

            "Come, _mijo_ , let me look at you," Maria stepped back slightly, her hungry eyes moving as if she wanted to commit every change of her eldest son's face to memory. Her features twisted into a scowl, but the gleam in her eyes reassured him that she was the furthest thing from angry. "You are as skinny as a twig! What have they even been feeding you? You must have missed your Mamá's homemade frijoles, eh?"

            Cougar couldn't help it; he laughed and pulled his mother close again, burying his face against her neck so she couldn't see the wetness building in the corners of his eyes. When he looked up again, his father had stepped into the light, and the lump that had become lodged in his throat grew impossibly tighter. His old man was just as aged as his mother and hunched over from years spent laboring as a mechanic; with a start, Cougar realized that he was taller than both of his parents now.

            "Papá…" He was barely able to choke the word out. Cougar and his father may have shared the same name, but their worldviews could not have been more different. Suddenly, he was eighteen again and standing at the front door of the house, watching the storm building in his father's eyes as he held onto his sobbing wife and stared at the boy who had once been his son, the boy who had sold his soul to a world of guns and gore.

            Now, though, when Cougar looked into his father's eyes, he saw nothing but relief, but acceptance, but love. Don Carlos Alvarez threw his arms around his son, and Cougar found himself hugging him back.

            "Welcome home," whispered his father.

            "Carlos," repeated his mother, reaching up once more to stroke Cougar's hair.

            That was all it took for the dam to break. Tears bloomed in his eyes and freely raced down his cheeks, but, oh, he was well past caring. There was no one to judge him, no one to scoff at this moment of vulnerability. He was a boy again, breathing in grease and cinnamon and cheap vanilla perfume, and everything was all right.

            The next thing he knew, the door to the house was finally giving way, and Cougar tried to blink back a fresh wave of tears as his brothers and sisters ( _Dios_ , some of them had been toddlers when he last saw them) rushed out to greet him. A few of them even had children of their own, now; little things that reached for him with sticky fingers or stared at him with wide eyes from the safety of their parent's arms.

            Cougar blinked, and, suddenly, he was facing a very different set of kids. Their young bodies were burning; their little hands held tight to the remains of stuffed animals; their screams filled his ears until it was all he could hear.

            Then, the rest of his family crashed into him, and Cougar pulled himself out of the past. The memories would remain, he knew that; no amount of love would free him from the guilt. They would always be a part of him. They would last until his dying day.

            But so would this. So would his family. So would Jensen.

            Cougar wasn’t sure if he was deserving of salvation, but he decided that, for the moment, it didn't matter. For once, he felt no need to confess. For now, he could let himself be forgiven. For now, he could grant himself mercy. And as the moon rose in the sky and he melted into his family's embrace, he did just that.

            Cougar threw his arms around his parents, let one of his little nieces borrow his hat, and allowed himself to finally come home.


End file.
